


Oblivious

by Ellidiotts



Series: Rare-Pair One-Shots [7]
Category: Barry (TV 2018), Living With Yourself (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Clones, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, I just love Paul Rudd and Bill Hader you feel me?, M/M, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:35:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29099655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellidiotts/pseuds/Ellidiotts
Summary: Miles knew the hit went tits-up as soon as he found Barry bleeding out on the hotel room floor.
Relationships: Barry Berkman/Original Miles Elliot (Living With Yourself)
Series: Rare-Pair One-Shots [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2115096
Kudos: 2





	Oblivious

**Author's Note:**

> I think a lot about how my introduction to Bill Hader was a gif of him kissing Paul Rudd... then this kinda wrote itself.  
> Also considering all the Barry/IT crossovers I see, thought I might as well add my own crossover into the pile. Kinda sucks that there really aren't too many characters to ship Barry with in his own show :/

The hit was a  _ mess _ . 

Barry had no idea when the fuck he’d gotten this sloppy. He’d managed to get shot in the shoulder, after missing his target-- he wasn’t sure what surprised him more, that he’d managed to miss, or that the guy he was trying to kill had managed to one-up him.

It was  _ bad _ , and that was an understatement. There was so much fucking blood, it was getting  _ everywhere _ , but at least he’d managed to get away before the situation further escalated.

After a ridiculous amount of fumbling, Barry opened the door to his current hotel room, stumbling inside. His legs were no longer complying, causing him to trip over his own feet, collapsing in a heap beside the bed. His breathing was becoming ragged, and his vision was starting to fail him. The pain was unbearable, and he couldn’t find the strength to keep himself conscious.

Only now did he realise the room was empty. He wasn’t expecting that. He didn’t want to be alone right now. He needed help.

Barry tried his best to think coherently, but couldn’t remember the last time he fucked up this bad.

And now he was paying the price.

<< << << << << <<

“This is the guy,” his client said, placing a photograph on the table, and sliding it over.

Barry raised an eyebrow, taking a minute to study the rather ordinary looking man in the picture. Straight haircut, tidy shirt, nerdy glasses-- perhaps in his mid-thirties? It was hard to tell. Still, he kept a gun by his side as back-up.

“Really?” He questioned, unimpressed. “Seems pretty harmless. What’d he do? Fuck your wife?”

“What? No-- nothing like that. I’m not even married. I just don’t fucking like him.”

Barry shrugged. “Sure, alright. I need a name and address.”

“Really?” The client paused a moment. “Just like that?”

“...I’ll need the money as well.” Barry pinched his brow, suppressing an eye roll. He hated dealing directly with customers. It was the only thing he missed about working with Fuches. “In advance. In full.”

“Right, right-- lemme just--” The man fumbled around the contents of his car, eventually returning with an inconspicuous briefcase of money.

“Alright.” Barry nodded, taking the goods and holstering his pistol. “Give me two days. I’ll call you when it’s done.”

This was going to be an easy enough job. Paid well, too. Not to mention that this target was practically harmless. There was no way this could end badly.

At least, that’s what he’d keep telling himself.

>> >> >> >> >> >>

Barry passed out at some point from the blood loss. Pain finally shocked him conscious, a rush of dizziness making him nauseous. He’d fallen to the floor, and somehow ended up on his side-- thankfully, the side that he hadn’t been shot on.

His eyes caught sight of a half-empty bottle of whiskey, sitting atop the table; an invitation. It was enough motivation for him to drag himself up, struggling over awkwardly, feet continuing to ignore his commands.

Barry pressed his palm firmly into his shoulder as another wave of pain shot through it. He grunted, leaning onto the couch, finally able to swipe the drink from the table. He waited a moment, catching his breath, and attempted to mentally prepare himself.

After a few more seconds, he grit his teeth, pouring some of the liquor over the wound. It hurt like a motherfucker-- but he was running out of options right now. He couldn’t afford to bleed out and die. 

Taking a hearty swig from the bottle, he let out a harsh cough as the alcohol burned down his throat; giving him temporary relief from the worst of the pain.

Barry had never expected the room to be empty when he returned. Now he was fucked. No friends. No family. No Fuches. He couldn’t trust anybody-- and there was no way in hell he’d be dragging himself to the hospital in this state.

Too many questions; so few answers. All ending in handcuffs.

He couldn’t risk it.

<< << << << << <<

Barry had a perfect vantage point. He was a block from the hit’s residence, and as far as he could see-- he was alone. It was dark; quiet.-- yet he made sure to connect the silencer to his rifle. 

Everything was set for an easy job.

It had been hours since he’d originally set up, beginning to worry that he’d have to delay to the following evening. But then he finally had a chance at a clean shot, leaving no time to waste. He squeezed the trigger with a soft exhale, watching the man go down in the distance. 

He paused. There was silence. Not a single movement from the house.

A job well done.

Barry sat back down on the uneven ground, pulling his rifle into his lap, carefully disarming and dismantling it, like he always did. He pulled out his phone, dialing the client to confirm that he’d held up his side of the bargain.

“It’s done,” Barry said as soon as the call was answered.

“What the fuck are you talking about, asshole?” Came a rather angry response. “What’s done?”

Barry was taken aback, checking that he’d called the right person. There was no mistaking it.

“The hit,” he clarified. “What else would I possibly be referring to?”

“Don’t bullshit me, man. He’s right here. He’s literally sitting a few tables away from me at the pub.”

Barry stopped breathing, eyes going wide. Fuck-- there was no way that he’d just killed the wrong person, right? He quickly pulled up the documents he’d been provided, focussing on the name, the address, the photographs-- it was  _ definitely _ the right guy.

“Look, I have no idea what kind of game you’re playing here, but you’d better make sure you kill him, or I’ll--” There was a loud scuffle, followed by some muffled words. “Fuck, he’s leaving. You’d better be ready to take him out or I  _ swear-- _ ”

Barry hung up the call, throwing the phone to the side. He hated dealing with this shit. Why was it never easy? Why did it always have to get this fucking complicated? He killed people. That was what he was good at. Not all this other shit.

He sighed, rising to his feet, and dusting himself off. The client could be lying - or he could have simply fucked up and killed the wrong guy. Regardless of the answer, he had to make sure. He knew what he saw, though - down the end of the scope - there was no denying that he’d killed the right guy.

Barry ran a hand down his face, frustration setting in. This wasn’t what he’d usually do, but he’d need to go and check. To confirm up close, so there’d be no mistaking it.

Thankfully, the street was quiet; no surprise for this time of night. After a brief surveillance of the area, Barry snuck up to the back door of the estate, finding a convenient spare key under a nearby rock. 

People were far too predictable these days.

Walking through the kitchen, he couldn’t hear any sounds from upstairs, so that was a good sign at least. He still took his time as he crept up the stairs, pausing at each squeak of the floorboards beneath him. There were several rooms on the second floor, but he had a good idea of which room he was searching for. His hand lingered above the handle for another moment, taking in and holding a deep breath, as he slowly pushed the door open.

Barry immediately averted his eyes at the sight. He could, without a doubt, confirm that the man before him was dead. But he’d need to get a closer look at his face to be sure. Taking a cautious step further into the room, he flinched at a sudden sound from downstairs-- the front door, swinging open and shut again.

Shit.

He had to think fast; opting to immediately hide behind the door in the room. There was no stopping whoever that was from coming up here and finding the body, so he’d simply have to take this guy out as well. 

Barry cringed at the thought. He  _ really _ didn’t like unnecessary killing, but he had to make sure to do what he needed to do to protect himself. As he listened to the stifled creak of floorboards and unanswered calls, he could do nothing more than hope they’d give up, and turn away-- before it was too late.

Then the door opened, and Barry knew he’d fucked up as soon as he saw the man’s face.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, you gotta just write about a pair of middle-aged, soft, depressed men drinking together and getting up to no good...


End file.
